


Eyes of a Dead King

by LambdaLegend



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - GTA, Fake AH Crew, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 03:36:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2636546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LambdaLegend/pseuds/LambdaLegend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're a henchman in a gang in Los Santos, slowly climbing up the ladder of what you thought was the biggest ring, until the rise of the King.</p><p>Now you've got to go to him for mercy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please be forgiving! I have edited it so many times and I'm still not happy with it, but I may as well share it. My first attempt at Fake AH Crew.

It’s the way the King looks at you that makes you fear him.

His reputation precedes him, and it’s a reputation lined with bullets and blood. Three weeks ago, a buddy told you over a cigarette that the King had told his men to kill cops - for a game. The LSPD lost six guys that day. Two of them at the hands of the Vagabond alone. When you had heard about it, you wondered what kind of sick lunatic sent a crew to kill cops for no reason. But here you are, deep underground, caged into their den, approaching the King as he sits in his chair indifferently, his long, tattooed fingers drumming against the butt of his pistol ceaselessly. His clean, fresh-pressed black suit looms above you. You can see the body armor just underneath his jacket: thick, powerful, military grade. He doesn’t seem to care who you are or what you have to say, but he’s listening anyway. Like he’s humoring you. Like how your grandmother told you God was when you were little. Standing under a fluorescent lamp on the King’s left is Michael Jones in his trademark shades and brown leather jacket. Looks like an ordinary guy, and if you passed him on the street, you wouldn’t suspect he was a member of the King’s inner circle. Jones watches you carefully. His trigger finger twitches.

On the King’s right hand side...the Vagabond. For some inexplicable reason, it’s a bit of a shock to see the Vagabond just standing there: a flesh and blood man. You’re not sure if the term “human being” applies to him anymore, though he dresses in a blue polar fleece jacket and jeans, like a normal person. Then you look up to meet his gaze.

You never thought you could take a guy who hides behind a full-faced black skull mask seriously. Even after you heard tale after tale, story after story of the deranged Vagabond, how he never seemed to be caught, like water slipping through fingers. Though halfheartedly, you had always wondered if anyone had ever seen his face under the mask.

He’s staring at you with cold, hungry eyes from underneath his dark skull mask. His fists are clenching and unclenching, flexing and clawing, and he reminds you of how your uncle’s mean-faced dog always looked at you when he wanted nothing more than to bark and snap and bite your foot like he did when you were three, but couldn’t because he feared the hand of your uncle more than he wanted to hurt you. And the most terrifying part: his eyes were gleaming with life. He was alive. Joyful, even. As he stands and dreams of tearing you apart with living eyes. Then you understand why the faceless Vagabond haunts the nightmares of the cops and crooks alike that survive him. A hunger lingered in his eyes, one that felt too remote to be human. It was primal. Feral.

A sound draws your attention. The King clears his throat quietly, patiently, like he knows that you’re about to piss yourself, and he’s seen it happen a hundred times before and just wants you to say what you need to say and leave so he can have his whiskey. His face is long and gaunt and pale, shrouded in shadows. His hair is cropped short and dark. His mouth is drawn and tight, and the dark beginnings of a beard shade his chin. His eyes are droopy, and the color of the sky after the sun goes down, and they are cold and empty and unfeeling. Above his head, a crown is painted on the wall in blood.

You hope your blood won’t be repainting it.

You could handle Jones. That was easier to swallow than anything. You could handle the rage you felt when you thought of your buddy dead from a month ago when Jones rampaged down a drug ring’s turf with a gatling gun in broad daylight. You don’t fear him as much as hate him. You could stomach the Vagabond. You haven’t experienced his lunacy firsthand, and you hope you never will. But the King. He stares at you with empty, dead eyes, like the way God might stare at an unrepentant sinner begging for his life. A few seconds of meeting those eyes and you see the whole of his history, the dead bodies strewn, the families torn apart, the blood drying on his hands even as he paints his walls. And for as far as you can tell, there’s no purpose.

It’s all because he can.

It’s the way he looks at you.


	2. Michael

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation I did from Michael's point of view.

Once our guest practically crawled away, we burst out laughing. Geoff’s laugh was rambunctious and infectious, and he wiped a tear from his eye.

“Figure we scared him enough?” I cackle.d The look of absolute fear on that kid’s face was utterly priceless. It took every ounce of self control I had not to laugh while he was still in earshot. Ryan could be heard laughing quietly from under his mask, and the sound came out ominous.

“Dude, why do you sound like you’ve just killed a man all the time?” I asked, peering around the side of Geoff, who was still howling with laughter. Ryan peeled off his mask.

“Keeps it interesting,” he said offhandedly. Underneath the mask revealed a fair, clean-shaven face with a mop of short, sandy hair, crystal blue eyes, and a freakish pattern of face paint. It had been off-putting the first time we saw the great Vagabond’s face, and for all I knew, he did it because he was the biggest lunatic I’d ever met, but I put on my big boy pants and got over it. His forehead was blood red, his eyes spiked in black, white cheeks, black stitching vertically on his lips. Geoff finally took a few deep breaths and started counting out the money we extorted from that guy from another local crime ring. Ryan had probably already memorized the inside information we were given. I really have no idea how anybody finds us intimidating, but fear is a good motivator in this business. My phone buzzed in my leather jacket. Another one of our crew, Gavin, was enthusiastically texting me to get over to his apartment.

“Hey, I will catch up to you later,” I said, dialing a number to call up a car on the surface.

“Yeah, see you Michael!” Geoff chuckled, packing up his effects and concealing his pistol under his jacket. On the surface, I had a less conspicuous car waiting, and I drove patiently to Gavin’s flat, instead of my normal “tear up the streets” style. A lot less fun, but it keeps me out of the LSPD’s radar. I messed with my unruly brown hair in the rearview mirror. The natural curls kept fraying out and it seriously pissed me off. My phone buzzed again; this time, it was Ray. It’s a pretty dumb idea he’s got this time. With one hand, I replied. When doesn’t he have stupid ideas? It was a few minutes before I got a response. If you want to doom yourself to listen to this one, not my problem. I pulled up outside the building and let myself into Gavin’s apartment. I made a mental note to remind him that he was a wanted man and should probably lock his front door. I was immediately greeted with Gavin squawking at me and dragging me over to his living room. Ray was sprawled out on the couch, watching Popeye on the huge flatscreen, and he raised a hand to me in greeting. He was wrapped up comfortably in purple hoodie and beanie, which was as much of his standard uniform as my jacket was for me. Gavin was impatiently pulling on me like a kid trying to get their mom off the phone.

“Chill out Gavin,” I snapped, pulling from his grasp.

“But Mi-chael!” he whined. His English accent twisted his pronunciation of my name, so it always sounded like “Micoo”. Gavin’s coffee table was cluttered, and at first glance, I groaned at the array of black and white selfies printed out.

“What the hell is this?” I exhaled with exasperation, reading the title on the huge map of the city - “Heist”. I pinched the bridge of my nose, greatly resisting the urge to yell at him out of sheer irritation. Gavin was eagerly awaiting what I had to say.

“I said the same thing,” Ray commented as Popeye downed his can of spinach on the TV.

“Gavin?” I started. He looked at me like he was expecting a cookie. “Do you remember Geoff’s heist?”

“Yes, and it was bloody brilliant!” he asserted, folding his skinny toothpick arms across his chest defiantly. “I figured I could make it better!” Ray was shaking his head with a deep sigh, reabsorbing himself into the senseless black and white violence he was watching, but if I knew anything about Ray, he was listening. I seriously wanted to slap Gavin, but I started counting backward from 10 in my head.

“Ryan tried to kill Geoff,” I said, very slowly, to be absolutely sure he understood. “They lost the money and nobody got paid. How is that brilliant?” Gavin’s green eyes were shining and he rocked back and forth on his heels.

“Well, I was hoping you would help me figure this one out,” he muttered. Ray raised one eyebrow at me, silently asking if I really wanted to encourage him. While he was creative and a technical genius, hacking into computers we couldn’t even touch, Gavin had a lack of common sense and a specific ineptitude in the field, given by the selfies he had taken, of himself, at a future crime scene, printed out on his coffee table. I scanned the papers on there briefly.

“Screw it,” I huffed, plopping down on the couch in front of the table. “Could be fun.” Gavin beamed and bounced into the seat next to me. We set to work.


End file.
